Do you have an abortion story? tweeted the ABC reporter

"Within hours, the original Tweet thread received thousands of replies. It became an inspiring Christmas testimony to the beauty of life, the courage of parents who choose life, and the joy of children.

Hundreds of mothers and fathers replied to @FiveThirtyEight with stories of their brush with the abortion industry following a special needs diagnosis of their unborn child. Attaching a beautiful portrait of a smiling teenage girl, Sarah tweeted: “At the ultrasound for my 2nd pregnancy we were told our baby had Down Syndrome and her heart was incompatible with life. They encouraged us to end the pregnancy. She’s completely healthy.”

Women who chose to keep their baby in spite of family and cultural pressures to abort also shared photos and stories of their now-thriving children. Women like Lauren Bower raised voices of encouragement: “I got pregnant at 19 during the first semester of my sophomore year in college. I kept that baby and I now have a 6’3” 17 year old preparing to apply for West Point. He will change the world. Never kill your children.”

Roxanne wrote, “I was pregnant at 16 & was supposed to spend the summer in France as an exchange student. The baby’s dad’s family knew Dr.s who could ‘take care of it’. My dad said ‘we will help you if you want to have this baby’. That ‘baby’ turns 41 in Thursday. [sic]”

Their children also applauded mothers who kept them. Kenneth Landers knows he beat the odds: “Abortion was designed for ppl like me: low income, brown, fatherless. I’m 30 years old, helping my mother retire, thriving professionally and personally.” "

Fishing for Abortion Stories, News Outlet Receives Unexpected Response - CatholicVote org

Grandma and Santa Claus, a story (anonymous)

I remember my first Christmas adventure with Grandma. I was just a kid.

I remember tearing across town on my bike to visit her on the day my big sister dropped the bomb: "There is no Santa Claus," she jeered. "Even dummies know that!"

My Grandma was not the gushy kind, never had been. I fled to her that day because I knew she would be straight with me. I knew Grandma always told the truth, and I knew that the truth always went down a whole lot easier when swallowed with one of her "world-famous" cinnamon buns. I knew they were world-famous, because Grandma said so. It had to be true.

Grandma was home, and the buns were still warm. Between bites, I told her everything. She was ready for me. "No Santa Claus?" she snorted...."Ridiculous! Don't believe it. That rumor has been going around for years, and it makes me mad, plain mad!! Now, put on your coat, and let's go."

"Go? Go where, Grandma?" I asked. I hadn't even finished my second world-famous cinnamon bun. "Where" turned out to be Kerby's General Store, the one store in town that had a little bit of just about everything. As we walked through its doors, Grandma handed me ten dollars. That was a bundle in those days. "Take this money," she said, "and buy something for someone who needs it. I'll wait for you in the car." Then she turned and walked out of Kerby's.

I was only eight years old. I'd often gone shopping with my mother, but never had I shopped for anything all by myself. The store seemed big and crowded, full of people scrambling to finish their Christmas shopping.

For a few moments I just stood there, confused, clutching that ten-dollar bill, wondering what to buy, and who on earth to buy it for.

I thought of everybody I knew: my family, my friends, my neighbors, the kids at school, the people who went to my church.

I was just about thought out, when I suddenly thought of Bobby Decker. He was a kid with bad breath and messy hair, and he sat right behind me in Mrs. Pollock's grade-two class. Bobby Decker didn't have a coat. I knew that because he never went out to recess during the winter. His mother always wrote a note, telling the teacher that he had a cough, but all us kids knew that Bobby Decker didn't have a cough; he didn't have a good coat. I fingered the ten-dollar bill with growing excitement. I would buy Bobby Decker a coat!

I settled on a red corduroy one that had a hood to it. It looked real warm, and he would like that.

"Is this a Christmas present for someone?" the lady behind the counter asked kindly, as I laid my ten dollars down. "Yes, ma'am," I replied shyly. "It's for Bobby."

The nice lady smiled at me, as I told her about how Bobby really needed a winter coat. I didn't get any change, but she put the coat in a bag, smiled again, and wished me a Merry Christmas.

That evening, Grandma helped me wrap the coat (a little tag fell out of the coat, and Grandma tucked it in her Bible) in Christmas paper and ribbons and wrote, "To Bobby, From Santa Claus" on it.

Grandma said that Santa always insisted on secrecy. Then she drove me over to Bobby Decker's house, explaining as we went that I was now and forever officially, one of Santa's helpers.

Grandma parked down the street from Bobby's house, and she and I crept noiselessly and hid in the bushes by his front walk. Then Grandma gave me a nudge. "All right, Santa Claus," she whispered, "get going."

I took a deep breath, dashed for his front door, dropped the present down on his step, pounded his door and flew back to the safety of the bushes and Grandma.

Together we waited breathlessly in the darkness for the front door to open. Finally it did, and there stood Bobby.

Fifty years haven't dimmed the thrill of those moments spent shivering, beside my Grandma, in Bobby Decker's bushes. That night, I realized that those awful rumors about Santa Claus were just what Grandma said they were -- ridiculous. Santa was alive and well, and we were on his team.

I still have the Bible, with the coat tag tucked inside: $19.95.That store clerk was one of Santa's helpers,too!

May you always have LOVE to share,

HEALTH to spare and FRIENDS that care...

And may you always believe in the magic of Santa Claus!

(sent to my by Robin Hall)

Poets and Writers

It's been a lot of years since I picked up a writing magazine. I used to write some fiction back in the mid-1990s. It was lots of fun. The stories just came from no where and I was always surprised by the outcome. I'd write the first line, and the rest came. Then they stopped. First line and all.

Yesterday at the library sale I picked up for a quarter the Nov/Dec 2008 Poets and Writers. Do you think writing--fiction, non-fiction, biography, poetry, mystery, romance, sci-fi--is better today than the days before all the prizes and contests, degrees and workshops? Are the people on the best-seller list the best? Did they get there by entering contests? Or are contests just useful for paying off the organizers and their staff. Look at these

Fence Books awarded Elizabeth Marie Young of Berkeley the 2008 Motherwell Prize for her poety--$3,000 and publication of her book.

University of Evansville awarded David Stephenson of Detroit the 2007 Richard Wilbur Award for his poetry collection--$1,000 and publicantion of his book.

Frederick Reiken won the Fiction Open, $2,000, and his story will be published in the Winter 2009 issue of Glimmer Train Stories.

And so it goes. But look how much money these organizations bring in with their contests:

University of Evansville Wilbur Award competitors need to submit $25 per manuscript--what if 1,000 people send something? Yes, it takes some staff and handling, and someone has to read the submissions, but usually you know after the first paragraph whether it's worth it, and you've got that $25 check in hand.

Glimmer Train which is sold on newstands and certainly isn't cheap, collects $20 per entry for the opportunity to win that $2,000 prize. That journal is very well known and marketed, and I'm assuming gets thousands of hopefuls.

That Fence Books Motherwell prize will cost each entrant $25, and since it is for a first or second book of poetry by a woman, it probably gets thousands writing about baby spit up or lost loves. Here's one of mine based on the Suze Orman TV show. It's timely, got name recognition, pathos, and a snappy ending.

Girlfriend, Suze said,
while you imagined love
there's a slight chance
you missed the bounced checks,
school loans, credit cards,
child support and gambling debts,
a mortgage about to reset,
a house that hasn't flipped,
and his mother who has.

If you want to write for money, you might be better off putting ads on your blog page.

Flipping through this issue, I do see a few that have no entry fee, like National Council of Teachers of English and Nebraska Arts Council, but they are outnumbered by the for-fee contests/prizes/awards.

There's a photo on p. 18 of a party in 1963 for the founding of Filmwrights International, sort of a union. Most noticeable, given today's casual culture, is that all the men are in suits, and none of the women are identified. But the famous authors in the photo, none of whom had probably won an award to launch their careers or attended a writing workshop in Iowa or Arizona, are George Plimpton, William Styron, Ralph Ellison, Peter Mathiessen, H.L. Humes, Truman Capote, and Mario Puzo.

Call me crazy, but I think if you're good, someone is going to find out without your sending $25 to 100 contests to win $500.